


Supposition

by aquabelacqua



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Dinner, Fluff, Giveaway fic, Idiots in Love, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Kissing, M/M, Moving Out, Mutual Pining, POV Sherlock Holmes, Seriously they are idiots, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 14:53:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8213044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquabelacqua/pseuds/aquabelacqua
Summary: For my 100 followers giveaway!From johnlockishell's Tumblr prompt:"I'd like something fluffy involving first kiss in 221b and violin maybe."I hope this works, my friend!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [johnlockishell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnlockishell/gifts).



As a doctor, John Watson was competent, professional, and empathetic with a good, if sometimes brusque, bedside manner. 

Sherlock glanced over at the sniveling mess on the sofa. 

As a patient, however, John was a bit of an arsehole

He’d been trying to care for John for days—in his own way. But John’s anger had turned to moping had turned to self-pity and now Sherlock could barely stand the sight of him lying around their flat, mumbling under his breath.

“She wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he moaned. “My  _ life _ wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Was John even talking to him? He hardly knew anymore. If Sherlock could locate a wheelbarrow, he’d simply dump John at his therapist’s office, punch elevator buttons at random, and hope that Ella found him before he’d ridden up and down enough times to display signs of claustrophobia-induced panic.

Perhaps he was being uncharitable.

Sherlock stalked to the window, yanking the curtains back in frustration. The world outside looked as tedious and predictable as John was acting right now. He could see a lover’s quarrel down the main road, an old man hunched over his shopping, and a young couple holding hands while texting other people. Hateful.

He missed  _ his _ John, the exciting one. Soldier-doctor-flatmate-madman. Sherlock knew enough now about the heart to understand that it took time to heal after a break but the waiting was torture.

_ (No, not torture, _ he amended. He knew about that, now, too.)

John may not have any idea about what his life was supposed to be like but Sherlock did, and that made it all the worse. Sherlock threw the curtains back over the window.

Across the room, John’s breathing was laboured while he napped fitfully after a fit of rage that Sherlock had  _ almost  _ listened to the whole way through. Unshed tears made John’s nose whistle a little. If John were awake, Sherlock would not be able to stop himself from poking fun at the noise, but in slumber, even this flaw—this flaw,  _ especially _ —was nauseatingly endearing. He walked quietly to the sofa and perched on the arm, his shadow blanketing John while he slept on. He leaned forward to better hear the sound, a soft, ragged inhale and then a tiny steam whistle blown forth from John’s clogged left nostril.

Sherlock was still looming over John like a giant, un-winged buzzard when John awoke with a snort and startled at him.

“Jesus, Sherlock! What the  _ fuck  _ are you doing?”

“What’s it supposed to be like?”

“What?” John rubbed at his eyes furiously and then blinked up at him.

Sherlock leaned forward even more. He had his fingers hooked under the arm of the sofa to keep from toppling forward but they were out of John’s sightline and he wondered if, to John, he looked as if he were about to pitch forward and flatten John’s body with his. He scanned John’s face for any interest in that activity.  _ None. _

“What do you think your life is  _ supposed _ to be like?” Sherlock asked. He half-hoped his air quotes were visible to John.

John caught on at once. He sighed and ran a hand over his face, his annoyance melting back into self-pity once again.

“Oh. Well. Different.”

_ “ _ Different how?”

“I don’t know. Just…different.”

What was Sherlock to say to that? Different meant  _ not this. _

_ Not  _ him.

If John’s life was supposed to be different, perhaps Sherlock’s was too. But that made no sense. He had deduced it, he had  _ figured it out. _ Why hadn’t John? What more did he need to understand? Time? Impetus, or—?

Sherlock swirled away to think, leaving John on the couch, shriveled and wingless like a swatted fly.

_ What would it take for John to see his life as it was truly supposed to be? _

*****************************

At the restaurant. Sherlock carefully took one bite, slipping the food off of his fork with a flash of his even, white teeth and allowing the rich flavor to coat and caress his tongue. Then he set his fork down, nudging the tines so they lay perfectly parallel to edges of his napkin, and pushed his plate away.

John looked up at once and pointed his own fork at Sherlock.

“You,” he said, mid-chew, “are eating more than that.”

Sherlock did not respond. He steepled his fingers under his nose and gazed at John, taking care to neutralize his expression.

“I’m serious, Sherlock. You didn’t drag me to this trendy hellhole to eat one bite and let the rest go to waste.”

“You came willingly enough.”

“Because you said you were hungry. So eat.”

“I’m quite finished. Thank you.”

John’s hummed angrily.

“You haven’t eaten a proper meal since Saturday.”

“So? It’s Sunday—“

“It’s _ Tuesday, _ Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked down at his plate pointedly.

The mussels were bright and lemony and fragrant, the wilted greens adding a fresh, peppery tang. He forced himself to frown at the meal, pushing the plate another few centimetres toward John.

“I don’t want it,” he said quietly.

John set his fork down.

“You told the waiter—you  _ specifically _ said—”

“I know what I said, John,” Sherlock replied. “But this isn’t what I asked for.”

“It’s  _ exactly _ what you asked for. They didn’t even have mussels on the menu tonight!”

“Well,” Sherlock said, breathing through his mouth so the buttery-lemony-peppery smell couldn’t reach his nostrils and force a loud gurgle from his empty stomach, “It wasn’t supposed to taste like this. And now I don’t want it.”

And with that, he wiped his lips on his napkin and took out his phone, pretending to glaze over whilst he trolled the news, all the while keeping a weather eye on John’s reflection in the plate glass front window.

John glanced worriedly at Sherlock’s plate and then tucked back into his pappardelle primavera with a bit less gusto. Sherlock buried a smile.

*****************************

His bowing hand flew, and Mendelssohn filled the living room, vivid and sweet and a little frantic—just the way Sherlock thought the Violin Concerto in E Minor sounded best. He played to his audience: John sitting in his chair, hand wrapped around his mug, newspaper abandoned on his lap. Even from the window, Sherlock could see the satisfied look on his face.

Sherlock leaned into the gentle melody, caressing each note with the full length of his fingers, the depth of his tightly-restrained passion. In this, he could reach the walled-off areas of his heart without anyone the wiser.

He mentally checked the pacing—he was easing towards John’s favourite section—and he forced himself to speed up, despite the feeling of  _ wrongness  _ in his bones and the clear notes written across the page in his mind palace:  _ allegro molto appassionato _ . He glanced up and across the room.

John shifted, a frown folding down his forehead, and Sherlock switched tempo again, roughening smooth notes and adding a playful kick to the melody. His mind turned to ridiculous piano bars and he snapped his wrists, each pass of his bow filling the room with, raucous, jazz-tinged notes that sounded as far from the original song as would a circus march.

When he finished with an outlandish flourish, sending the final note sailing across the room like a bawdy dancer removing a sequined underthing, John laughed out loud.

“What was  _ that _ , then?”

“Trying out a new resin,” Sherlock sniffed, lowering his violin into its velvet-lined case.

“Trying out a bit more than that, sounds like. That was almost...jaunty”

“I thought it could use a bit of  _ modernising."  _ The word tasted bitter on his tongue.

“Did you now?”

“It’s less placid like this. A bit of a doormat arrangement, otherwise.”

“Is it? You’ve never described Mendelssohn that way before.”

Sherlock’s heart stuttered. John had been paying closer attention than he’d thought.

“Yes, well,” Sherlock said. “This pacing suits the piece better. Enlivens it.”

John clucked his tongue. “Huh. This was really...different. And—and good. But I sort of like the way you usually play it.”

“Well, it proves how little you know about music, then,” Sherlock said loftily. “This is the way it’s supposed to be played.”

“What bloody cheek! You know more than the composer now?”

“I do.”

Sherlock glanced up at John over the edge of his open violin case. John was squinting back at him, puzzled.

Had he pushed this too far? Sherlock wondered. John could pull the blinders down when he wanted, certainly, but he was the sharpest man Sherlock knew—besides himself and Mycroft—and he was apt to catch on if Sherlock weren’t careful.

He stared back at John, willing his features to stay stock-still, to give away nothing.

“If you say so, Sherlock,” John said at last.

“Trust me, John,” he replied, and tried not to grimace at the wistfulness in his own voice.

*****************************

_ "Move out?" _

John’s face was ashen. Sherlock tried to harden his heart but it was like flinging sand onto a crumbling sandcastle whilst the tide dragged it oceanward.

“John, you need to be reasonable.”

“Hard to be reasonable when you’re facing homelessness, Sherlock.” John looked around frantically, as if trying to memorize the comfortable clutter of their flat in one go.

“You’ll hardly be homeless,” Sherlock scoffed, pushing against his own burgeoning panic. “Your clinic work has picked up, you’ve got money saved from—”

“The money’s not the point at all, Sherlock, and you know it. You’ve not even given me a reason. This is my home, too, and you can’t just—”

“You’re not on the lease.” Although he said it as gently as possible, his heart bloated with self-hatred at the shuttering-down look in John’s eyes. “I should be able to do what I want with the flat.”

“And this is what you want?”

“I’m a grown man, John,” he said, watching John’s nervous foot slide back and forth on the edge of the worn carpet. “I’m not supposed to have a flatmate at this age. It's not proper."

John’s snort was as loud as a cannon shot.

"Since when have you cared about what's proper?"

"Since when have YOU?" Sherlock countered, unable to keep the accusation out of his voice.

" _I'm_ not the one kicking out my flatmate," John said, scraping a fresh layer from Sherlock's reserve.  _Hold steady,_ Sherlock thought.  _ He’s got to come to it on his own. _

"Yes, well. I see we aren't going to agree on this so we needn't bother continuing. You can stay ‘til the end of the month and I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will allow you to store some of your things in the basement flat beyond that, if need be."

"Jesus,” John whispered. “You’re serious.”

"Thank you for your understanding, John," he said, extending his hand and willing it not to tremble.

John didn't take Sherlock's hand; instead, he tucked his chin into his shirt collar, retreating bodily from the gesture. Sherlock wasn't sure if this was a good or a bad sign.

"I don't," he said. "I really don't understand, Sherlock."

Sherlock lost his nerve all at once.

“We’ll still take cases,” he blurted out. “When Lestrade calls, we can still—”

"Please," John said, and then licked his lips. "Please don't do this. I don't know what point you're trying to make, just that you’re making one.”

"John—" he began.

“I don’t want to leave,” John said. “This is all there is for me.”

Sherlock looked away before John could see his eyes change colour, as they always did when the storms came. He focused on his shoes—the most mundane of mundanities—in order to keep himself from breaking open and spilling out. 

“That’s not enough for me, John,” he said. “I don’t want to be where you go when you’ve nowhere else.”

“You’re  _ not, _ Sherlock. Christ! Is that what you think?”

Sherlock realized his slip too late.

“The flat, I mean,” he snapped. “It’s not meant to be a halfway house for divorcees with anger management issues.”

He heard John suck in air and then let it out again shakily, endeavouring to calm himself down with amateur breathwork.

Sherlock really needed new laces. It was the first thing to give away the age of his shoes—not the style (he was careful to pick a classic toe shape and heel height to keep from replacing them every two years) or the polish, which he attended to faithfully. It felt like one of many worn-out things about him.

“So, I’ll just head upstairs and pack, then.” John’s voice was oddly flat.

“I think that’s best.”

“I’ll take the lamp, the brass one with the peacock base.”

Sherlock bit his lip. They’d bickered over that purchase for an hour, debating how many inches of their shared desk it should occupy and toward whose side the shade would point.

“Fine.”

“And the kettle. I’m the only one who makes tea around here anyway.”

“As I expected.”

John fell utterly silent. So quiet, in fact, that, after a few moments, Sherlock stole a look to ensure that he hadn’t disappeared entirely. But John was still there, looking at him expectantly. Sherlock saw the puzzle pieces fitted together in John’s mind at last—clear from his looser posture, his unclenched hands. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock and Sherlock twitched with the effort of suppressing a smile. John caught the movement and his face relaxed.

“You don’t actually want me to leave.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, his pride at John’s deduction warring with the hurt he hadn’t known he was suppressing. Everything in him reached for John, to let him know all was well, all was forgiven, but he tamped down on the urge. He’d done his part—it was up to John now.

“You’ve been telegraphing this for days, haven’t you?” John said, the tension fading from his voice, each word smoothing out with relief. ”This is what dinner was about last week, eh? And the bit with the violin? These were declarations and I missed them.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Not entirely, it seems.”

“Yes, well. I made one of my own, you know.”

He tried not to jump when John’s hand—warm, firm, gentle—wrapped around his biceps and squeezed gently. The affectionate look on his face was almost too much to bear and Sherlock closed his eyes so he could experience each sense one at a time—the feel of him, his voice—without being overwhelmed.

“This is all there is for me, Sherlock,” John repeated, softer now, honeyed. _ "You _ are all there is for me.”

Sherlock covered John’s hand with his own, long fingers slipping into the spaces between John’s. 

“I’m sorry it took me so long to show you.”

And then John’s lips were on his, so gentle that Sherlock was certain, for a split second, he’d imagined them. His eyes flew open. John was standing on tiptoe to reach him and Sherlock wrapped an arm around his waist at once, pulling him close. 

“Another,” he demanded and swooped down to kiss John again. John chuckled against his mouth and pressed his fingers into the back of Sherlock’s neck, winding them into the curls and anchoring there.

“This,” John sighed between slips of their tongues, “is what my life is supposed to be like.”

“I know,” Sherlock said smugly, and leaned in to remind him again and again and  _ again _ .

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, always, for taking the time to read and kudos and comment and connect. This community means the world to me and I am so grateful to be a part of it! <3
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr under the same name :)


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